Chapter 38
Shepherd lay awake. He wasn’t at full strength. That much was certain. Twelve hours had passed since Curro had died, and Shep could wait no longer. Tonight, he would leave. The doctor usually visited him sometime before dawn, came to ask questions and when he did….
A noise outside stopped his thoughts. He dropped his head onto the pillow and lay still.
“I don’t know what I can do for him?” The voice was soft and feminine, immediately conjuring up a dozen sultry memories. Shepherd felt his breath catch in his throat. How long had it been since he’d heard a woman’s voice?
“Possibly nothing, my dear. But I thought perhaps just your presence would revive him. As I said…” Doc’s voice, though hardly a whisper, sounded as rough as a blow horn next to hers. “He is rarely awake, and when he is, he is barely coherent. Perhaps there is trauma to the head of which I know nothing. But I’m a simple country doctor and lack the appropriate tests. Therefore, there is little else I can do for him.”
Footsteps approached Shep’s bed. It took every bit of his flagging self-control to remain as he was. But he would wait until the doctor was within striking distance. He would wait, and then he would act.
“But…señor, he is he handcuffed.”
The doctor sighed. “I so hated to do it. But in all honesty, I know little of him.”
“Did you not say that Herrera’s henchmen had him?” There was a shudder in her voice.
“Yes, but was he merely an unfortunate passerby? Or was he, perhaps, in Guapo’s employ? As you know, that animal treats his own no better than he treats others.”
“You believe him to be one of Herrera’s men?”
“I think it possible,” Doc said. “But my vows as a physician insist that I do what I can to return him to full health. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“I am sorry to bring back hard memories, Carlotta. But I thought just the sight of you might give him hope. Knowing you survived your time at that animal’s hands…” He paused as if it were difficult to go on. “But perhaps it was selfish of me. I should not have—”
“No,” she said and stepped closer. “It is fine. I will do as you ask.”
“You are a saint, Carlotta.”
“I owe you much.”
“Nonsense. It is I who owe you. You have been like an angel since the passing of my dearest Dalia.”
So she was important to this man…this personification of evil, Shep thought. Therefore, she was evil by association. And she was close. So close. Maybe this would be his only opportunity. He could grab her and use her as leverage. Barring that, she would serve as a shield of sorts.
He felt the bed dip as she sat upon it. He tensed, prepared to do what he must to be free.
“Señor,” she said.
Shep snapped his eyes open, ready to seize her, to use her, but in that second, her gaze caught his.
Wide as forever, her eyes were the color of river stones. They shone with humor and worry and a thousand regrets.
His hand stopped in midair. His breath clogged like dredge in his chest. Some kind of strangled noise issued from his throat, but even he had no idea what it meant.
She raised narrow eyebrows at him. Her hair, dark as a gypsy’s, fell around her face like a midnight waterfall. And that face… As long as he lived, he would never forget her face, for it was life personified, light after a thousand nights, rain in the midst of a drought.
“How you feel?” Her voice was heartbreaking. A melodic mix of little girl sweetness and carnal sexuality.
“What are you doing here?” He didn’t mean to say those words. Didn’t mean to imply that he knew anything of Doc’s nature other than the benevolence he revealed to the world. But her beauty shocked him, confused him.
She smiled. His heart cracked open a little wider, though Shep himself couldn’t have said why. He had known his share of beautiful women. Hell, he had slept with most of them, but she was…well…she was an angel.
“You give my friend the nasty fright,” she said.
For a moment, he was so enmeshed in the sound of her voice that he forgot to respond. But he caught himself.
“I’m sorry.” He cleared his scratchy throat and shifted his gaze to the doctor’s. “I didn’t mean to worry y’.”
The man stepped a little closer, though he was still out of reach, even if Shepherd had been coherent enough to attack. “I feared you were slipping away from us. But my ploy worked, did it not? A beautiful señorita and…voila. Life is not so easily thrown aside, is it?”
Shepherd held the other man’s gaze. Was there a double meaning there? Was there a threat? Or had he imagined the entire episode with the man called Curro. The man who had died pleading for his life just three feet from Shep’s bed.